


extravagant

by pseudocitrus



Category: Tokyo Ghoul, Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: F/M, First Time, Gap Filler, Light Angst, Smut, arieto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 19:54:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8115400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: Arima and Eto and all their plotting.





	

**Author's Note:**

> love me some arieto ♪( ´////｀
> 
> hope you're having a good day!

It wasn’t like anything particularly led up to it. After she began to write, it seemed like an obvious thing to her that in this world there are actions and there are consequences, and yet in this case to try and recover the exact evidence from their many days of relatively innocuous plotting would require lingering over things that, if she were to write them out herself, would seem lackluster and forced at best.

“Make it simpler,” Arima says, as if he knows anything about writing at all, and Eto takes the papers back with a thin smile.

“It’s already simple.”

“You write just like you fight,” Arima says. “Your extravagance adds nothing.”

“It’s good,” he says, some weeks later, when they meet again, and despite herself Eto can’t help her smile being not as thin as before.

“Yeah. It is.”

:::

The exact evidence.

There’s so much of it, and yet not enough. Anything she might make of it would be nothing like the beautiful thing they’re creating together already, nothing like the tiny throne they’re warming and growing beneath their feathers and feeding with their own blood.

It wouldn’t be a story at all. Just something like a private joke. A little monster whose insides turn to vapor the moment its ribs are parted to the sunlight.

:::

Okay, but.

If she had to draw the line somewhere.

A good place to start would be the shrine. The creaky wood and frigid cement, the foxes with their pelage of stone and moss and snow and stone again. Above them the tree is always a little different when she spots his silhouette approaching, the boughs green and then fragrant and then yellow and then laden only with a cold that mutes everything but their two plumes of breath. He wears plain casual clothes, and brings food, ample servings of lunch boxes from convenience stores or train stations that he watches her eat.

At first he sets it out on the shrine and waits for her to ease out from the foliage and into the open. Later, she sits out and waves as he gets closer.

“Can you not eat?” she asks one day, way back when, before she learns a little subtlety.

“It doesn’t bring me any particular joy,” he says as an answer.

“This is really good,” Eto tells him, swallowing down some warm soup.

“Good.”

After some thought, she gathers up a brimming spoonful of broth, and holds it up to him. Arima looks at it and then leans down and opens his mouth. The steam clouds his glasses as his mouth closes on plastic. He winces, a little, but not from disgust. The spoon is empty when she draws it back.

“Too hot,” he tells her, and she snorts at him, but gives the next spoonful a couple blows.

:::

Of course, starting is the easy part.

But the middle?

Stone, moss, snow, stone. Green, fragrant, yellow, bare, green.

Their meetings, their small meals shared, Eto’s laughing over their newest draft, Arima growing out of his shirts and handing them down to her with puzzlement per her request, the two of them napping when the afternoons are too hot to speak, stowing books beneath the shrine’s floorboards —

Everything is there, buried away in time that, for the world, is passing in an even and orderly fashion. It makes a certain sense that even this would have its own flavor of fucked-up cruelty, that as the years go by they sit closer and closer and yet Eto feels like the same person in the same messed-up body, while for Arima, every year is actually two or maybe three and brings with it white hairs that she one day realizes are never going to turn back to —

“Make it simpler,” Arima tells her, “I have no idea what you’re trying to say,” so Eto goes up onto her knees, and takes his face, and kisses him.

:::

Lackluster, forced.

She comes to appreciate the humor of their age difference only seeming to widen the older that she gets, but not at first. The first time, she feels suddenly again like the child that he first met, small and weak, her courage withering to the realization that she maybe reached too far beyond her ability. She withdraws, licking her lips self-consciously. Just as she’s about to make some excuse for it, he threshes his fingers in her hair and draws her back.

For a moment, she forgets that their bodies are things that nature spat into existence out of spite. Time slows into their possession, turns lazy and luxurious as they taste each other, taking in not just the novelty of the flavor but the temperature of it and its softness and the tiny accompanying trembles. Her hands move across him, better to feel the reverberation of her kisses on his body, and she feels other things too that make her mouth bite with ardor: all that muscle, corded through bowed shoulder and heaving chest and trembling belly, the kind of power that would make any ghoul keel swoon with desire.

Any ghoul, or — or her, _something else_. For once, their differences and even their similarities mean nothing. His hands are roving across her too, and she has an instant where she panics and tries instinctively to hide her body away, but then her lips purse.

Hide — from what? Why? Pride straightens her spine. His fingers curl hesitantly at the bottom of her shirt and she guides him beneath it and his large palms fit so perfectly against her breasts that it feels like neither could have been made for anything else. He squeezes and rolls his thumbs and she moans against his mouth and moves him, settles his back to the shrine’s floor and parts her legs around his broad waist.

She inverts her shirt over her head, watches as her own nipples turn hard and up under his attention, sees his eyes flicker with rare fascination at the sight of it. She smooths her hands between his legs, finds him hard, sees him shudder with a pinched breath, and then she unbuckles, frees him. Her hair swings across her lower back as she stands to unstick, step out of, and flick away her underwear. By that time, he’s even harder.

The warmth in the pit of her belly, growing by that time for months, flares up into her ribcage, filling it with so many sparks that she struggles to find enough room to breathe. Arima’s body beneath her is as firm and strong as stone and as she arranges herself over him he helps her, steadies her hips and supports her aloft as she points his erection toward her and eases herself onto it.

The first touch is hot, almost too much so, and too intimate; her hunger, almost always insatiable, shies nervously. Apprehension makes her coil and wince with a flush of pain. But his hands caress her ass and her back and her pulsing shoulders, and the soft flesh of her face beside her darkening right eye, and she sinks slowly, breathing hard, spine shivering and arching with pressure and heat. The sound of Arima groaning beneath her gives her a wild courage. She takes him completely, feels his chest quake ragged breath against her fingertips, feels him get even harder against her wet insides, and for some time then, as she rolls him in and out of her, the world isn’t fucked-up and miserable after all, but _theirs, theirs, theirs._

She climaxes first, with an embarrassing sound, a high and helpless cry that catches her by surprise — her nails scrabble, her legs kick — when she stills, it’s with shivers and gasps, and she’s taken aback by herself and the sweetness of her pleasure. Before she recovers, Arima flips her onto her back, and thrusts fervently, making Eto start to cry out and grip him as she feels her body start once more to unravel. She feels Arima’s body above her suddenly tense, and then _thrust;_ his whole body presses against her, he moans and squeezes her against him, and in her second throes she feels his sweat smear on hers, and his nails dig into her skin, and her body eagerly swallowing up everything.

She claws his face toward her, and, his glasses askew and dark eyes hazy with lust and his stoic mouth panting, the raw expression she wrested from him, cracks something. She’s stolen many things of value, but, _this_ , freely given to her and also hungrily taken from her by the beast she knows possesses nothing but the titles thrusted on him, makes her heady. She stores that look of his deep inside her and takes it out every night until he comes back and they, with barely a word, tear each other open again.

:::

Actions, consequences. Beginnings, endings.

They planned it from the beginning and still somehow her left hand itches to take up the pen again anyway, and add another page.

One more evening where fireflies glow from between his fingers. One more morning with canned coffee steaming into the air. One last embrace before the shrine cracks with age, before he starts to close his eyes to forget their blackness, before she whispers the last word in place like a key and locks away the chapters with them in it.

But.

In the story they wrote, they weren’t meant to be protagonists. They lived; they met. Other things happened, but nothing complex or interesting enough for anyone to care about. Between them, things were always simple.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
